Mist Over Pendle (18 page)

She rose and took her leave as soon as she decently could, and at once Miles was on his feet to do the same. It was plain that he meant to ride with her, and it would look odd if she were to raise objections; so she let him have his way, and they rode off together down the steep track to the Sabden brook.

She put it to his credit that he lost no time then in coming to the point.

“I owe you apology madam. I’m very conscious of it, and most regretful.”

Margery made no comment, and when he glanced almost appealingly at her he found her wrapped in a frosty dignity that chilled him as much as it surprised him. He did not know that it also surprised Margery, who had not known she had it until she suddenly assumed it. Then she spoke crisply.

“If you had good reason not to ride to Wheathead, sir, you might have said so with more frankness--and certainly with a deal more courtesy.”

His head reared at that, and she knew it had stung. He had no good answer, but he did his best.

“I certainly erred,” he said. “The circumstances were very---“ He stopped, plainly distressed. “Oh I’m sorry. I’d no wish to---“

He did not finish that, but took to staring at his horse’s neck. Margery kept her frosty air, but under it she was feeling warmer towards him. His sudden descent from formal speech to that simplicity had pleased her, and had revived her belief that he had decent notions behind his foolishness. But she would not let him know that yet. A spell of banishment would do him no harm. Besides, Margery was pleased with this new-found dignity; it promised to be useful, and she wanted to practise it. So she drew rein and then faced him squarely when he stopped beside her’.

“Master Nutter,” she said. “It’s ill talking when there are resentments to cloud it. And that’s our present case, as you well know.” She waved him into silence when he tried to speak. “The moon was young last night, as I chanced to see. When it’s come to full you may seek me again if you’re so minded. And by that time I’ll no doubt know my answer.”

And before he had found a word she was trotting away in unbroken dignity. That, she thought, had been excellently done. She had shown him as much kindness as he had deserved, and perhaps more; and she had left herself free to decide as she chose. Best of all, she had discovered this new dignity, which she must certainly cherish and preserve against a day of greater need. It was very well.

But she had been so concerned for that dignity that she had ridden from him without any thought of where she was going; and when she came to earth again, and began to give heed to her whereabouts, she discovered to her annoyance that she had been making towards the Rough Lee and was, indeed, close upon it. Certainly that would not do this day, and she made her escape, as she had done before, by turning up the steep lane that led to the wooded ridge. But this time she continued up the lane beyond the ridge, and soon she was on the shoulder of a hill from which, a mile away across the valley, she could see what looked like the Barley road. That tempted her, and she turned from the lane to the grassy slope. But by this time she was feeling more than hungry. She thought of the bread and cheese in her bags, and cast about for a halting place. She had not far to seek. Below her in the valley, not ten minutes’ ride away, a coppice of fresh young trees broke the smooth green of the grass and promised a welcome shade. Margery left the track and made directly for the coppice.

She stretched herself lazily on the tufted grass, flinging off her hat to let the wind through her hair. She ate at leisure, lying on her back and watching the white clouds chasing in the blue above. A mood of content, was on her, and she was disposed to be grateful to God and Roger Nowell, who had between them given her all this in place of the sweating kitchen in the house at Holborn. She wondered idly what Prudence was doing this day; whatever she was doing, she would not have this sun and wind and grass to grace it. Margery looked round happily to savour them to the full, and her eyes took in the trees behind her. Something struck her as odd and in another moment she was sitting erect and looking keenly.

Unquestionably it was odd. These were the outer trees of the coppice she had seen from the track; all were young and much of a size; but between them, filling the spaces between their trunks, were cut boughs and sprays of brushwood.

Margery considered it thoughtfully, asking herself who had done it and why. Then, with her curiosity rising, she got to her feet and walked across to see more closely. That satisfied her that this was no accident of wind or weather. The boughs and brushwood had certainly been put there by human hands, and put there to make a barrier; it was not a stout barrier, but it would suffice to persuade a wandering sheep to go elsewhere. And again Margery asked herself why.

She walked slowly round the coppice, and soon she found what looked like an entrance, for here there was only a single bough joining a pair of trees. She dipped under it and made her way cautiously along a trodden track. Thirty paces brought her to a clearing in the trees, and here she stopped and stood staring.

It was an odd sight. The clearing was of some size, and large enough for its centre to be full in sunlight, clear of all shadow from the trees; and here, in this sunlit centre, tall plants grew thickly. Margery moved slowly among them, peering at them and asking herself what they were. Certainly she had not seen such plants before. And as she looked, she noted also that the soil between them was looser and less choked with grass than it was elsewhere; almost, it had an air of cultivation.

She gave her attention to the plants again. Most of them rose above her waist. They had large dull-green leaves, paired with surprisingly small ones, and carried on stout and branching stems. The plants had borne flowers earlier in the summer, and most of the flowers had fruited; but here and there a late flower remained, and very odd flowers they were--big, bell-shaped, and of a curious pale purple. A few late fruits remained too, and these were as odd as the flowers; they looked like small black plums, smooth and shining, and still wrapped in the green leaflets that had once cupped the purple flowers.

Margery’s mind was alert by now. Only a few late fruits remained; then where had the others gone? Birds? There seemed to be no birds about these plants. Children? Children would hardly roam to this lonely coppice, and they might not be tempted if they did; there was something repellent about these purple flowers. Then she remembered the boughs and the brushwood and the air of cultivation. Had the missing fruits been picked? Margery stood puzzled and thoughtful.

She bent down and picked one of the shining fruits. The overripe pulp squashed easily, and the juice spurted over her fingers. She threw it away in disgust, and stood contemplating the scene. Her fingers felt sticky from the juice, and she put them thoughtlessly into her mouth to lick them clean. Then she spat viciously as an acrid bitterness assailed her tongue. She spat again, and her tongue was dry and numbed.

At that she left it. She had had enough of this place, and as soon as she could come up with her horse she was away, riding down the hillside, grateful for the sunlight and watchful for the Barley road. Yet she did not ride at ease. Her mouth had dried as though she had thirsted for hours, and the fingers that had held the fruit felt dry and taut and strangely numbed.

She was in thoughtful mood when she got home, and the mood lasted while she drank ale to allay that strange thirst, while she washed, and changed her clothes, and made ready for supper. It persisted after supper, even though she was at last able to assure herself that her mouth and fingers had returned to normal.

It grew quiet then, in the parlour, as they sipped their wine and felt the warmth of the fire. Roger was tired after his day at Altham, and he turned sleepy in the comfort of his elbow-chair. Margery sat silent and thoughtful. Then she remembered the book called a Herbal which he had shown her on a night so long ago, and as he dozed she got quietly from her chair and took it from the ingle-shelf. And while the fire crackled, and the chill of night crept down from the Hill, through the Forest and over the house, she sat with a candle beside her and the book on her lap, steadily turning the thick, soft pages.

It was sleepy work. She was tired from the saddle, and soothed by sun and wind; and her eyes grew heavy in the glow from the fire. But she persisted, turning page after page while the logs burned white and Roger dozed by his forgotten wine. Twice she tip-toed to the hearth and mended the fire, and it was burning low for the third time when she found what she sought. Then sleepiness left her abruptly.

This plant with the purple flowers, she read, was known to some as Atropos; and that startled her, as well it might. For she had learning enough to know that the Fates are Three. The first is Clotho, who spins the thread of life; the second is Lachesis, who measures the length that each shall have; and the third is Atropos --who cuts the thread of life.

She gave attention to the Herbal again. This plant, it seemed, was known best to the Italians, a people famed for their subtle skill with poisons. It was as a poison that they held it in most regard, and a man who drank this juice would surely die, crazed and raving. But the Itahans had another use for this plant, and a strange one. Their ladies would squeeze these shining fruits, and run drops of the juice into their eyes; which would then open wide, and become big, dark and staring; and the Italians, who seemed to think that this enhanced the beauty of their ladies, had therefore named this plant, in their own tongue, La Bella Donna.

The dying fire fell together and spluttered into sudden flame. It roused Roger and he sat up, blinking in the rush of light.

“What’s this?” he said, and stared at her. “Do you see ghosts?”

“I ... I think I do,” she answered slowly.

“God’s Grace! You’ve an edge to your voice tonight.” He was fully awake now. “What’s the tale?”

She told him, fully and completely; and he listened without comment, sitting quietly in his chair and never taking his eyes off her face. When she had ended he rose, still without speaking, and drained his wine. He threw more logs on the fire, and propped his shoulders against the chimney-shelf. In the same silence she lifted her face, and her eyes met his. She shut the Herbal and let it lie on her lap unheeded.

“To die raving?” Roger spoke first. “Meaning to twist and writhe and rant, and see what isn’t there?”

“I ... I take it so.”

“It
is
so. I’ve seen it so.”

He turned from her and leaned on his elbow, staring at the sizzling logs.

“And eyes agape, you say? Big and wide?”

“So the Herbal says.”

“It says truth. That, too, I’ve seen in Pendle.” He turned to face her again. “What foulness have you unearthed?” he asked her quietly.

Margery came to her feet and stood by him. He lifted his eyes from the logs to meet hers, his lean aquiline face set and grave.

“This raving, sir, and these wide eyes. You’ve seen them here--in a dying man?”

“It was a dying girl I had in mind.”

“Oh!” The chill that came from nowhere was surging up her back. “You--you mean Margaret Baldwin?” He shook his head slowly.

“Not for aught that I’ve heard. It was Anne Nutter---“

“Oh!”

For a moment the sunlit room in Goldshaw reared before Margery’s eyes--with Miles Nutter eating his aunt’s apple-tart, and the kindly, soft-voiced Anthony standing by the open window telling of his girl who had died. Then, as quickly as that had come, it had gone; and Margery was back with the fire and the candles and the grim-faced Roger.

“She raved of the Chattox,” he was saying. “And her eyes were even so.”

He slapped the chimney-shelf as though irritated. Then he went abruptly to the table and poured himself wine. “We needn’t thirst,” he said.

He held out the crystal jug that held the wine, and after a moment’s hesitation Margery took her glass to be filled. Wine, she thought, might help this moment.

Roger raised his glass, and there was a faint smile on his face as he viewed her across the wine.

“You’ve done well,” he told her, “uncommonly well. Nevertheless---“

She looked up at him, and she had a hint of a smile to match his.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “it would be a decent prudence if we spoke of it to none just. now. Such matters---“

He broke off and sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

“That a witch has malice I’ve known these many years. That she has more than malice I’ve held in doubt. That, perhaps, might bear a second thought.”

Margery nodded assent. And later, when she took her candle and went slowly up the stair to bed, she was still in thought; a witch’s curse, it seemed, might truly cut the thread of life--in Pendle.

Now came October, and a vast brewing of ale. Ale of a sort might be, and often was, brewed at any time, but no ale of the year was held to equal the October brew, Other ales were smaller stuff, good enough for a salty thirst or a kitchen revel; but to the honoured guest, to the man of quality, there was nothing to be offered but the four-year-old October.

Margery soon discovered that everybody was expected to help. To read and write and cast accounts were skills rare in Pendle, and she who had them was made to use them. Soon she was busy from morning till night, checking quantities of grain and firing delivered, riding here and there to inquire for grain and firing not delivered; and when that was done, and the brew in progress, she must record the quantities placed in barrel, and check and pay the wages of the helpers. She was kept so occupied that the full of the moon had come and gone before she remembered that Miles Nutter had not sought her out. She told Roger of this, and he laughed at her. Miles, he said, would be like the rest of Pendle-- busy brewing. Nobody ever visited anybody till the October-brew was done; they were all too busy brewing.

Then the weather broke. It had lasted beyond its season, and the brew had been done in days that could have been September. Margery, in particular, had been grateful as she rode her busy miles in sunshine. But a morning came at last when she woke to the splash and patter of rain on the windows, and she knew that St. Luke’s summer was gone at last. Grey mists of rain were sweeping up the valley on the wings of the south-west wind, and when she looked for the hills they were not there; all high Pendle was lost in the swirling rain, and when, after breakfast, she peered sulkily through the streaming glass and wondered if she would be able to ride that day, Roger laughed at her. If she were not out of her mind, he said, she would ride nowhere that day, nor the next day; and to her great discontent Roger was right. For three days and nights the streaming flood poured down; and then, in the night, the wind came out of the north-west, and it blew. It blew like no wind she had ever known, and when, she ventured out on foot she was aghast at its force. She came home hatless, wet and muddy, to spend the rest of the day by a fire that kept flaring back at her in maddening waves of smoke; and she learned that night that the rose-red curtains of her bed were not for decoration only; they were all that stood between her head and the vicious draught from the ill-fitting casements.